The Riddle Legacy
by juno malabre
Summary: If Tom was just a muggle, how can Voldemort be quite so strong? Standalone sequel to The Darkest Riddle
1. Chapter 1

The Riddle Legacy

By

Juno Malabre

3/12/2005

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Strange images have been haunting my dreams over the last two nights. Last night for instance: a young woman huddled in a clearing in the Riddle forest, wearing very old fashioned clothes and waving a stick over something on the mossy floor. This is not the puzzling thing, for I have seen this, and many similar situations in my dreams as far back as I remember. However, in this particular dream, as the woman turned, the point at which I habitually awoke, the figure blurred and sharpened. Now the girl wore normal, albeit filthy clothes, and I recognised her as Gaunt's brat. She stood and stood there, and all at once, in that strange way that dreams have, a baby appeared in her arms. However this child was hideously deformed, as pale as milk with eyes of red, and slits in place of a nose. I awoke in a cold sweat, gasping my throat tightening with the knowledge that… Ah, how do I put this… In the dream, that monster was my son.

I feel restless today, still disturbed by that image. I thought, by setting it all down in black ink, I would feel less horrified. But no. Perhaps I shall take a ride over the valley, even visit the girl herself, if only to confirm that my horror of a dream could never become a reality.

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O the tortures of love! I have been a misguided fool, and now I am a lost fool. This morning I wrote that having any sort of offspring with Merope would be impossible. Yet I want nothing more than that! O I love her, I love her! My beloved is an angel on earth!

And what changed my mind?

I barely know myself. Again, I labour under the delusion that if I set all this madness down on clean, fresh paper, the love-confused mess in my head will become clear.

I had my horse saddled and brought round to me by Bryce, the gardener's son, and I set off at high speed, following a path down into the valley itself, away from the tiny village of Little Hangleton. I soon descended into the calm that filled the valley, and my thoughts drifted off once again to my strange dream. The magic, (and I am almost certain it was magic, forgive me if it sounds foolish,) Merope had been performing before she turned unsettled me. And for good reason too; there is a rumour in these parts that some time during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, a different village had stood in the place of Little Hangleton. It is certainly true that the village records only start in 1602, just before the death of that good queen, and anyone with a sharp stick and stout boots can turn the earth in certain fields and find blackened cornerstones and rotting wood. The tale goes on to tell how one day a great fire swept through the village, leaving nothing of the buildings once there but these blackened remains. Then this absurd fiction states that this was no ordinary fire, but a witch's spell started by the very residents of my house, the Riddle house. Complete rubbish, however it was rubbish that got the entire family killed after a distressed housemaid went to the authorities and pointed the finger. The sole survivor was the widowed Mrs. Riddle, who returned to live in the unscathed house with her young son. I am a direct descendant of that lucky woman, and there has not been any hint of magic in the ancient Riddle bloodline since then. But still, the notion of it makes me uneasy.

I let the horse have its head as we began to climb and my mind strayed with these thoughts, and it broke into a brisk trot, then a canter. I only remembered my original destination as I raced past Merope herself standing at the entrance to her squalid house. The sudden shock of seeing her seemingly waiting for me made me pull back sharp on the reins and the horse stopped abruptly. I however, did not, and carried on over the brute's head and crashed heavily onto the road. I heard a sickening crack and felt an unbearable pain in my left arm before the colours of the world swam away and I was left in blackness.

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A/N: Well, here it is, the sequel to The Darkest Riddle. I think it will be able to stand alone, however there may be some references that Riddle virgins wont appreciate…

Reviews would be muchly appreciated. xx


	2. Chapter 2

"Drink this, it will help the bruising.' A sweet voice, but a bitter, bitter substance was being administered to me by the owner. I spluttered, but forced myself to choke it down. My eyelids finally began to heed the signals being sent to them, and opened. A fuzzy, but feminine, figure was holding another glass of liquid, smelling far sweeter than the first; a strange mix of honeysuckle, bridle polish and oranges.

'And this is for…your thirst.' she continued after a moments hesitation, although I am half sure she whispered something in the pause. I took the glass, grateful, for I was suddenly aware that I _was_ thirsty. I downed the sweet juice in one, hardly tasting it. I once again tried to focus on the figure at my bedside, and then my vision cleared, and I saw the angel of beauty. She was wearing a tattered, grey dress, and her hair was so dirty as to be almost black, but I knew her at once to be my true love.

She watched me studiously as I struggled to sit up, then I took her hand in mine.

'Merope.' I breathed. Her eyes searched mine for a fraction of a second before her rosebud mouth stretched into a tentative smile.

'Merope, my love, how can I thank you for your kindness?'

The pretty little thing blushed and looked at her feet. Never have I seen anyone so modest, so demure…

'My lord, I do not think your f…fiancé would care to hear you speak in such a way.'

Fiancé? I thought long and hard; a vague image of a haughty, insipid woman crammed into far too much lace and ribbons floated before my eyes. I felt nothing, and could hardly remember her name.

'It is as good as over, if you would do me the honour of accepting my offer of marriage.'

A flash of hope crossed her face, swiftly followed by doubt. I knew I would have to convince her.

'I mean what I say. I love you, Merope. I only realised just now, but it' s no less ardent. Marry me.' It came out as a plea, although I had meant for a command. The girl herself was flustered, I could tell. She was holding back.

'How can I marry you? Your family would forbid it outright, and I am sure your fiancé's family would not let you, one of the most powerful heirs in the valley, nay, the county, go that easily. My father and brother will return from…from their journey soon, and would not be at all pleased that I have been talking to you, let alone that you have been courting me, and I…' She faltered, working up the courage to continue. 'I have loved you since the first moment I saw you, this is something I have dreamed about for years. But I cannot trust that you will stay feeling this way about me.'

There was a silence after her speech. Words of protest ran through my head but died on my lips. I would have to convince her myself.

'Then we will elope. Tonight. We will leave at midnight, I will come for you and we will leave for London.' I pushed myself up so I was sitting on the edge of the bed. I expected my arm to be in absolute agony after the fall, but I was pleasantly surprised when it only felt slightly bruised. Perhaps I had imagined the crack.

I looked at the bowed head of the silent Merope before me, waiting for her answer. Finally she raised her head and I saw tears in her eyes. She nodded gently.

'Midnight.'

I could have whooped for joy, but restrained myself as she led me outside to where my horse was tethered to a tree. I swung up into my saddle, then leant down to plant a gentle kiss on her upturned forehead.

She was still watching me as I rode out the gate.


End file.
